I And Love And You
by simplyleah
Summary: Jude is sick. He's resigned to dying. But when he meets an amazing girl-the daughter of Edward and Bella, put up for adoption as an infant with her twin brother-and all he wants is to live, will they find a way? Can love truly conquer all?
1. Chapter 1

**Finally, it's up! This story has been under construction for a while, and I'm glad to say it's up and running. If you read it before I edited and revised (Previously named: A Song Like This) and are discouraged, don't be. It's so very different you shouldn't even associate the two. Enjoy!**

**BTW, this isn't a song fic. One of the two main characters' name is "Jude", named after the Beatles song. All of the song lyrics at the beginning of the chapters are all from songs by the Beatles as well. Anyway, let me know what you think! **

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**Chapter One - Jude**

_"And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain. Don't carry the world upon your shoulders . . . you know that it's a fool who plays it cool by making his world a little colder."_

Ever since I was a little kid, I've hated roller coasters. I hate constantly feeling like you're going to topple out of the cart, fly up and never come back down. I hate feeling so unsure about your footing, or about the location of your stomach. They're too jerky—they throw you on wild turns and hairpins, and you never know what's coming next. You never know what to expect.

If you ever asked me how to describe what it's like having cancer, that's how I would describe it. My footing is never sure. I never feel balanced in my life; one day is fine, normal, and the next is the worst I can possibly imagine. It's an endless cycle.

Equilibrium is now a thing of the past.

The first time I went into remission, I was eleven. It was the best day of my life. We'd had this big appointment scheduled—my mom called it the "whammy"—after my last MRI and CBC, and I was nervous. So, so nervous.

"We are optimistic," Mom had said in the car, seeing my expression. She ran her hand over my bald, bumpy head. This was before Peter and Lucy were born, when it was just Mom and I. Before Dad came back.

I nodded grimly, looking out the window. "Optimistic," I repeated, not really knowing what the word meant, but having heard Mom say it enough times to make a pretty good guess.

She'd kissed my forehead and squeezed my shoulder the way moms do, and that was that.

The second time, I was fifteen. Lucy was three and Peter was one, and we had our neighbor come over to watch them. Dad had gotten fed up with us pretty fast this time around, and we hadn't heard from him in a while. I'd gone out of remission two years before, and I was very, very sick of being sick. I couldn't stand to look in the mirror, to see my hollowed out cheeks and red eyes, or my bald head. I was an alien.

Mom hadn't shaved it for me that time. I'd kept it short after I'd gone back into remission the first time, and it fell out pretty quick from the chemo.

"I look like Voldemort," I'd complained to her, at the time.

"No, you don't," she argued. "You're too cute to be Voldemort."

"_Mom_,"I had groaned. I tugged my baseball cap lower on my head.

She squeezed my hand tightly. "Stop worrying, honey."

That was her motto—it still is. _Stop worrying. _Mom, my hair is falling out. _Stop worrying. _Mom, I can't stop throwing up. _Stop worrying. _Mom, I think Lucy just ate a crayon. _Stop worrying. _It was like, _We are optimistic. _It was all bullshit, but I dealt with it because it was how she dealt with _me. _We weren't optimistic, and I was allowed to worry. Worrying was our job; it was what we did. We worried about my radiation next week, or my test results from yesterday. We worried.

And while going in and out of remission is terrible, there's nothing worse than the feeling that there is no remission in sight. There is no light on the horizon, no glimmer of possibility. And I wonder, _How can that be? _How can I fight for seven years of my life, and still not win?

When the results come in from my MRI scan and CBC this time and Dr. Aldridge called us into his office, I prayed to God that it wasn't my blood under that microscope, my scan that he'd picked up. That they mixed up the vials, and the MRI images were wrong. That I will never again spend the night in a hospital, that blood is not mine. That my life will not change again.

_That blood is not mine._

I drive myself to the appointment, my mom's voice in the back of my mind from earlier this morning._Stop worrying. It's been two years and four months. We're fine. We're fine. _She has work, but I don't mind. We both know that we wouldn't have been called in for good news. I can't stand that look on her face, or the squeezes and hair-touching. I'm seventeen years old. I can handle this.

The rain is heavy, and the air is cold. My hair is growing past my ears now. I grew it out, in the spirit of those miraculous two years. I don't cut it. I never want short hair again. I still wear my hats when it's cold. I get a text from Caleb when I get there—his standard _Tell cancer to suck it_ doesn't surprise me. When I don't respond, my phone buzzes again. _Tell cancer to suck me, _he says this time.

I smile a little. He's the biggest ass, but he's also my best friend. _Nobody wants to suck you, _I text him back. I take the keys out of the car and make my way into the hospital, where Dr. Aldridge's office is. I'm early, but the nurse at the desk sends me in anyway.

"He's ready," she says. My head pounds. I'm _not_ ready.

I peak into his office, where he's sitting at his desk, typing furiously on the computer. His voice recorder is on in front of him, red light blinking, and he talks quietly into it. He doesn't look up at me when I sit down in front of him.

"So," he begins. He looks up. Then down.

I've never really liked Dr. Aldridge. I hate his stupid voice recorder, I hate that he talks into it while he's talking to me, how he says "The Patient" like I'm not a person, like he doesn't know my name. I hated him even more when I was younger—he was the terrible man who made my mother cry, who gave me cancer. It was his fault, not mine. He was a doctor. It was his fault.

Most of all, I hated his eyes. They were small and beady, sunken into his face, hidden by thick eyebrows. Darty, nervous eyes. He doesn't look at you. He looks near you, or around you, or at that stupid voice recorder. I hate that fucking voice recorder.

I stare him down when he doesn't say anything else, doesn't look back up.

"So," he says again.

_Spit it out, you jackass._

"I'm sorry," he says.

That's all. I'm sorry.

I stand up on shaky legs, and move to stand outside the window. "How bad?" I ask him. I don't want to know. I don't want to know. Please don't tell me. When he doesn't say anything, I repeat my question.

"It's common for bronchogenic carcinomas to spread," he says. "It must've been there this whole time. It's malignant. We were lucky last time, that the chemotherapy worked. We were lucky. We fought hard."

_I_ was lucky, I want to shout. _I_ was lucky, you bastard. _I _fought hard. _We_ weren't anything.

My head pounds. My heart pounds. My eyes fill.

It's back.

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**Next chapter is done and ready, too! Will be up tomorrow. _REVIEW!_**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two - Jude**

_"All the lonely people. Where do they all come from? . . . Where do they all belong?"_

I don't go home for hours. I turn my phone off and put it in my trunk, and I drive. I drive, and drive, and drive. I drive so far that I'm not even sure I know how to get home. I haven't cried in years, and it feels nice. My tears stream down my face like the rain off my windshield. My eyes cloud like the sky outside. I park on the side of the road, and put in the CD of my mom's favorite Beatles songs. The first, of course, is _Hey Jude. _I can almost hear her voice in the music; hear her voice whispering in my ear.

I start the car and turn around.

She's waiting for me on the porch, her eyes sad. I sit down next to her, wiping my tear-stained cheeks.

"Oh, Jude," she says.

I bob my head. It's not a nod, but she knows. She knew the moment I did.

"I made you chicken soup," she says. Her eyes are wide with the effort of not crying. She kisses my forehead and stands. "Come inside when you're ready."

I sit out there a while. I can hear Peter and Lucy inside. Peter's three now, and Lucy's five. Peter never met Dad. After another twenty minutes or so, I spot Caleb's car halfway down the street, jog down over. He's asleep in the back seat. I knock on the window. He starts, and frowns when he sees me. The door unlocks with a _pop _and I climb in with him.

"What a bitch, Jude," he says, seeing my expression. "What a _bitch._"

I bob my head. "What a bitch," I repeat.

"Well . . . I mean, it's not bad, is it?" I don't respond. Caleb curses. "Is it the same as last time? That . . . that lung thing?"

I shrug my shoudlers, shake my head. "No. It spread from that, though. It's a tumor."

"A _tumor?_" Caleb shouts. "Fuck. A tumor? What kind of tumor? Where?"

"My spine. It's . . ." I bite my thumbnail. "I don't remember what it's called. It doesn't matter."

"Well, fuck, Jude. Of course it matters. A _tumor. _Holy fuck. What are your odds? Did he tell you? What are they? You'll be okay, right? Won't you?"

"I don't know, Caleb. I didn't . . . I wasn't really listening. He said something about it being too . . . far along to operate. I need to start chemo soon."

"Fuck, Jude. Fuck. Did you tell your mom yet?"

I look away. "She knew. I didn't come home until now, and she knew."

"Is she freaking out?"

"No, you know her. She's fine. She's fine. She's just worried about me."

"Well, fuck, dude, _I'm _worried about you. I thought . . . I thought we were done with this."

"So did I." I open the door of the car. "I'm gonna go. My mom's probably wondering where I am now."

"Wait, dude. You want to smoke a bowl? People with cancer do that a lot, now, don't they? Does it hurt now? I'm down to smoke a bowl, Jude."

I laugh. "Caleb. I'm fine. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Nah, I gotta work. My dad has me working every day until school starts again. But fuck it, man. I'll get off early and come over."

"Don't worry about it. Just call me, alright?"

"Yeah, Jude. Of course I'll call."

My back aches as I walk back to the house. I wonder how I hadn't noticed it before; the steady thrum of pain, pulsing. I kiss my mom on the cheek as I walk past her on my way through the kitchen, and Lucy leaps down from her stool to take my hand. She follows me into my room, her pinky finger looped through mine. We sit down on my bed next to each other, and she starts to hum.

"Mommy made you chicken soup because you're sick," she tells me. She swings her legs over the edge of the bed. She glances at me and wrinkles her little nose suspiciously. "You don't _look _sick."

I snort, and wrap my arm around her, squeezing tight. I let out a breath. "I _feel_ sick, Luce."

Luce nods. "Okay. Will you get me sick, though? I have a play date tomorrow."

"No, I won't get you sick, Luce." I tuck her dark curls behind her ears. She yawns loudly. "You wanna go get your pj's on?"

"Mmm." It's a disinterested sound, but she jumps from the bed. "Come, come!" she exclaims. I slowly get up from my bed, suddenly feeling very, very old. I shouldn't feel like this. I should feel lively and capable and indestructible. Instead, I feel old and creaky and frail. And I haven't even started chemo yet.

Peter almost runs into me in the hallway. "Uh-oh!" he exclaims, bursting into giggles. Seeing him, for some reason, nearly sends me over the edge again. My baby brother. I pick him up and he laughs. "Jude!" he shouts gleefully. "Hell-o!"

"Hey, Peter Pan," I grin at him, tears welling in my eyes.

"Jude!" Luce calls me from the bedroom she and Peter share. I kiss Peter on the cheek before setting him down and walking down the hall towards Luce. She's sitting up in her bed, the top bunk, already wearing her pajamas. "Read me a story? Please?" she asks.

"Yeah, Luce. Come on down though, okay? We can read stories in my bed, or Peter's."

She pouts. "Why can't you come up with me?"

I chew on the inside of my cheek. "My back hurts, Luce. I'm sick."

"Oh." She frowns. "Okay, in your bed?"

"Sure, Luce. Come on down."

Mom peaks her head into the room, her eyes narrowed. "Lucy Elizabeth Callahan, where did you put your brother's bear?" I can hear Peter starting to cry in the other room.

Lucy blushes, tries to hide behind her dark waves. "I hid him."

Mom puts her hands on her hips. "_Lucy._"

I rub my temples, trying to fend off a coming headache. "I'm going to go lie down," I say quietly.

Mom turns to me, her brow furrowing. She cups my face in her hands. "I love you, honey. I love you so much. Please don't let this . . . don't let this ruin you, Jude. Not again." She kisses my nose. "Tell me when you want soup, honey. I'll bring it to your room."

"Thanks, Mom."

I collapse onto my bed and prop my legs up on the wall. Lying on my back doesn't hurt much yet, and I'm going to enjoy it while I can. I reach under my bed for the guitar, where I'd carelessly kicked it this morning. I strum a few cords, slow and easy. The door slowly opens. I look, and it's Luce.

She looks upset. She moves to sit on the edge of my bed, looking at my guitar. "Mommy doesn't like it when you sit like that," she says, in a quiet voice.

"Why'd you take Peter's bear, Luce?" I ask her, turning my head to look at her.

She starts to cry and comes to lie next to me, propping her feet against the wall. Her toes reach just past my knee. "I don't know," she cries. "Mommy's mad at me now! I hate it when Mommy's mad at me."

"Luce, Mom's never really mad at you." I sigh. "Mom just likes to make you think that she's mad at you."

Lucy doesn't argue with me, just turns her head away and stares at the ceiling. "Are you really sick, Jude? Do you have to go to the hospital again?"

I lick my lips, and play a little tune on my guitar. "Yeah, Luce. I do."

"Mommy was crying today when you were gone," she whispers close to my ear. I take her little hand in mine. "She tried to pretend, though, but I always know when Mommy's sad. Was she crying because you're sick?"

I tighten my grip on her fingers. "Mommy will be okay, Lucy. I'm just worried about you."

"Why are you worried about me? I'm not sick."

I play part of "Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds." Lucy hums along to it, because this song is her lullaby like "Hey Jude" was mine. "I always worry about you, Luce."

I'm especially worried the next day, when Lucy comes home from her play date in tears. Mom is at work, so I'm left to dry her eyes and put a Band-Aid on her knee. I cup her face in my hands. "Lucy, my darling sister, what happened?"

She's not in hysterics anymore, and slow tears drip from her chin. "I hit Emily," she says.

"Lucy! Why would you hit her? I thought you liked Emily."

"She was making fun of me. I _had_ to hit her, Jude. And then she pushed me."

I frown, leaning down so we're at eye level. "What did she say to you, Lucy?"

"She said that because I didn't have a Daddy I was _weird. _She said that he left because he didn't love me!" And then the tears start up again. "We were playing with her babies and she said that I could be the dad, but I said I wanted to be the big brother—like you, Jude! And she said a family needs to have a Daddy to be a real family."

"Oh, _Lucy. _You know that's not true. Dad loved you, I promise. He had to leave." I always hate myself when I defend my father, because I very much disagree with everything I say. But I also can't have my five year old sister thinking her dad left because he didn't love her. I can't let the rotten words of the other girls ruin her.

She nods sadly. "I love _you_, Jude," she whispers, reaching up to wrap her arms around my neck. I pick her up and set her on my hip. I can hear Peter crying from down the hall, awake from his nap.

"Do you want to go get Peter from his crib, Lucy?" She nods and I set her down, watching her run from the room, her tears and scrape forgotten. Lucy's a bit of a tomboy, but she's also a beauty. We have the same coloring—dark hair, fair skin, and gray-blue eyes—but her hair is long and curly, whereas mine has only a slight wave. Her eyelashes are thicker and darker than even my mom, and she has a splash of golden freckles on her nose and cheeks. Her face is heart-shaped like Mom's, and softer on the edges then mine. My nose is straight and strong and the arch of my eyebrows is sharp. Peter looks more like mom with his auburn hair, but he has fair skin and freckles like Luce.

Lucy leads Peter into the bathroom, where I'm still standing by the counter. I pick up my brother and give him a kiss, and then he urges Lucy to play trains with him.

"Lucy, my little helper, will you keep an eye on Peter for me?" I ask her, my temples pounding. "I need to go lie down for a few minutes." She nods, looking worried. She kisses me on the cheek. "Thanks, sweetheart."

I shuffle down the hall and sit on my bed like I did the night before, like I always have. Mom comes in an hour later, but pretends not to notice my sneakered feet on her wall. "Honey, do you want me to heat up soup for you for dinner? And Caleb's here—do you want me to tell him that you don't feel up to seeing him?"

I clear my throat. "Soup's great, Mom. Thanks. And send Caleb in, I guess. I'll kick him out when I can't handle him anymore."

She laughs. "Alright, baby. I'll tell him to come in."

I can hear when he's just outside my door, his flip flops slapping onto the wood floor. "Jude, my man!" he shouts before sinking into the beanbag in the back corner of the room. "I've just been dying to tell you about today."

I roll my eyes. "What about today?"

"We moved in a new family!" He says this like it's the most surprising, unexpected thing I'd hear in my entire life.

"Caleb," I say slowly, "you work for a _moving company. _All you do is move in families."

He frowns. "Whatever, man. But I mean a _new _family. From somewhere else. And this family, they have a _daughter_." He raises his eyebrows at me.

I snort. "A daughter. No way. Thinking of taking up babysitting?"

Caleb tosses a pillow at me. "Shut up. She's our age. And she's _hot._"

"Good for her."

"Man, I know you're not gay so don't play that shit with me. A new hot girl moved to town. You can't tell me you're not excited." And then it dawns on him, what I've told him over and over again as my reason for not wanting to date girls. He curses. "Jude, I'm sorry. I forgot. She's just . . . _so hot. _And funny. And nice."

"Sounds like you're in love."

"Jude, you're not getting it."

"Caleb, get with her if you want. I told you I'm not getting involved with any girls right now, okay?"

He stands up and glowers at me. "You've been saying that since we were twelve, man! And one day the cancer's going to be gone for good and you're not going to know what to do with yourself!" He takes a deep breath and then sits back down. "The only reason I stopped yelling at you is that I can't stand the thought of you dying before an argument was over."

We both burst into laughter, so much that tears form in my eyes.

I throw the pillow back at him, hitting him smack in the face. "You're such an asshole."

He grins. "Would you be friends with me if I wasn't?"

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**Review, please!**

**The next four chapters are written so I should be posting the next one the day after tomorrow!**


	3. Chapter 3

**This chapter is dedicated to Seph Meadowes, my new BFFF. You know you're awesome. You also know why.**

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**Chapter Three - Kat**

"_There are places I remember all my life, though some have changed. Some forever, not for better, some have gone and some remain." _

**_One week earlier . . . _**

I don't cry the day that we move. Wilhem makes fun of me the whole day because of that stupid bet we made, but I don't cry. And it's not just because I want his five bucks (which is basically all that he has to his name). I _do_ want his five bucks. But, facts are, I'm not that sad.

Alaska wasn't exactly the most exciting place to grow up—not that Connecticut will be much better, but still. Our high school in Ketchikan had less than one hundred students. There were less than twenty-five kids in my _entire grade. _I mean, I'm no social butterfly, but nobody wants to deal with that. Ever. The most interesting thing that ever happened was when we found a raccoon in our classroom freshman year. And even _that _wasn't that interesting.

Thank God I don't have to drive with my family. They'd gotten this crazy idea in their heads that we'd have a "family fun" road trip. Too bad we had four cars—each of us had our own—and nobody wanted to spend the money to ship them to Connecticut. So now we're just having a road trip, without the family fun, even though they still argue otherwise. We'll stop for meals together, and stay at hotels together, but that's it. My dad is psychotic and hooked up the cell phone tracking so he can make sure nobody drives off the road into a ditch or something but so far we're all fine, four ducks in a row.

My dad leads in his beat up black Range Rover from the 90's that he just can't seem to get rid of. I can guess that he's listening to the Classics station, probably eating one of the twelve bags of sunflower seeds he brought along with him. The trailer with all of our junk that we didn't ship follows behind him, attached to his car. My mom is following him in her white Mazda, which she calls her "cool mom" car. And yet I can guarantee you she's listening to classical music. Don't get me started. I'm trailing after her in my red VW Bug, otherwise known as Mr. Darcy. Wilhem's behind me in his beige '71 Chevy.

Will and I set up phone holders for our dashboards so we could FaceTime during the 3,603 mile drive. So far, we've knocked 5 miles off our trip. And we've only stopped once. Hell yeah. We're clearly making a ton of progress.

"Earth to Kat," Will says, in a sing-song voice. "_Ka-at. _Katrinelje."

I shake myself and glance at my brother from the corner of my eye. I stick my tongue out at him. "Sorry. I spaced. What's up?"

He sighs loudly. "I'm _bored._"

"Will, it's been two hours since we've left the house."

"No way!"

I laugh. "Yes way. 70 hours to go, Will."

"What?" he exclaims. "Mom told me ten hours."

"She was bullshitting you."

"No, she wasn't."

"Yes, she was. I promise. I looked it up. She knew you wouldn't want to drive if you knew how long it would take us." My phone starts to ring through Bluetooth. "Hang on, Dad's calling." I roll my eyes. "What's up, Dad?"

"Just wanted to see how you're holding up."

"Thanks for calling me, Dad!" Will shouts from my phone.

Dad bursts into laughter. My car almost shakes with it. "Mommy was supposed to call you, Will. I'm on Kat duty during this family road trip of fun. Mom's on Will duty."

"I guess Mom just doesn't love you, Will," I say, putting on a sad face. "I'm really sorry."

Dad laughs again. "Sorry, bud. Anyway, what's up, Kat?"

"Nothing. FaceTime with Will. That ferry was just oodles of fun, wasn't it?"

"Yes, oodles. Just wanted to make sure everything's good. When do you think you guys want to stop for lunch?"

"What do you eat in Canada?" I ask him.

"To be honest, I have no clue. I'll talk to Mom. She's smarter than I am."

"Alright, Dad. You should do that."

"I will. Don't give me sass."

"I'm not giving you sass, Dad."

"Good."

"Bye, Dad." I press the button to hang up on him.

"Why are you the favorite?" Will teases me about this all the time. He thinks it's because I'm younger, if only by three minutes.

"I've decided it's just because of my natural charm," I tell him seriously. "Nobody can resist me."

He snorts loudly. "Sure. Tell that to poor Ben Evans."

I snap my teeth. "Well. In my defense, I was very, very drunk."

Will laughs. "You scarred that poor kid for life, Kat."

"Shut up."

And so it goes. Our little road trip takes us an over a week, because we stop so much and spend the nights in hotels. After Canada, we drive through Minnesota, Wisconsin, Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, and Massachusetts. We drive ten hours a day, Sunday to Sunday. When we finally drive into Connecticut, I can almost sing. It's not much warmer here than it was in Ketchikan—maybe ten degrees. It's in the sixties, and it's wet.

"I'm kind of nervous about the house," I tell Will when we stop for breakfast before the last leg of our trip. "I loved our house in Alaska."

"It'll be fine," he says around the waffle in his mouth.

Then we stare each other down. "_Shot the biggest room!_" We both shout in unison.

Mom and Dad glance at each other, and then they say, "Kat."

"Sorry, Will," Mom says.

My dad is a psychologist—he has these funny wire-framed glasses that are too big for his face and likes to wear tweed coats. He's hazel-eyed and dark-haired, with skin that freckles in the sun. My mom is a neurosurgeon. She's tall and pretty, blonde and blue-eyed. Will and I are adopted, so we look absolutely nothing like them. I wouldn't call myself beautiful, but I've always known that I'm pretty—I'm not being self-centered, I swear. But I'm also not one of those incredibly annoying people who say that they're ugly just so people will tell them that they're not.

My hair is my best feature, long and wavy, bronze-gold with a hint of auburn, trailing behind me wherever I go like a cape. The problem with my hair is that it's not exactly easy to control. It likes to get caught in things, like zippers and food and car doors. It tangles and knots and glows. Tying it back rarely works, and only my mom's magic fingers can weave it into a French braid that holds. It's its own living, breathing organism. Sometimes, I feel like Medusa, with snakes squirming and lashing out without my control. Will doesn't exactly have the same problem as me, seeing as he keeps it cropped close to his head. But it's the same color, with the same unearthly glow when the light hits it just right. Our eyes are green, with flecks of brown and gold that you can only see if you look close enough.

We've known about the adoption for a while. It's not like we guessed or anything, because it's not totally weird for kids to look different from their parents and that's not exactly something you'd think about. But they told us after we turned eleven—they didn't want us to feel like they'd kept a major secret from us our entire lives, even though we did feel sort of betrayed for a while. We were babies though, only a few days old, when they adopted us. It was a closed adoption, so we don't know anything about our real parents, except for the fact that they must have been some fairy-tale obsessed freaks, what with the names they gave us: Katrinelje and Wilhem, Wilhem being a Grimm brother and Katrinelje being a character in one of their stories. We're just happy with the parents we have. It doesn't bug us that much. For the most part.

Dad claps and stands. "Time to go, Davis family!" Will burps and stands too, Mom doing the same (minus the burping). I groan and haul myself to my feet. Dad hurries to the door, and ushers us all out, tapping each of us on the shoulder. "Go, go, go!"

Mom throws her arm over my shoulder. "Nervous?"

I scrunch my nose. "A little. Sort of. Yeah."

She squeezes tight before letting go. "Don't be. The house is beautiful. I promise." She leans down to whisper in my ear. "And it's even _bigger._"

I just shake my head and smile.

"Be a Super Davis, Kat!" Dad is shouting from where he stands by his car. "Super Davis! 8 more miles! Get in your car!"

"I want to slap Daddy sometimes," Mom says. "Kat and Will, be careful! The streets are wet." I roll my eyes.

"We'll be fine, Mom," Will says.

We get into our respective cars and leave in order—Dad, Mom, me, Will.

Eight miles later, we arrive in Tolland. The skies are gray, the trees are green, and all I want to do is sleep. My car is quiet—I have raging headache that wouldn't put up with Will or the radio. The streets are quiet, too. Finally, Dad pulls into the driveway of a house not unlike one I'd pictured. It's massive—and white—with dark green shutters on all of the windows. The roof slants steeply up—it looks like there are two or three stories—and there is a brick chimney climbing up the side of the house. Mom pulls into the driveway next to Dad, but I just park out front on the curb. Will follows my lead and does the same.

Getting out of the car, Will comes up to me and throws his arm over my shoulders. "I'm really excited to shave," he says, touching his stubble thoughtfully, "and to get the biggest room in the house."

"You're not being a Super Davis, Will," Dad says, overhearing our conversation. "She said it first."

"She did," Mom says.

"Thank you," I say happily, stepping out from under Will's arm. We make our way to the front porch, where Mom and Dad are waiting.

"You're being such a sport, Will," Dad says. He pushes his glasses up his nose. "Such a sport."

Mom roots around in a soil-filled flower pot next to the glossy black door, coming up with a single key. "Ah-ha," she exclaims. Placing it in the key hole, she smiles at us in that creepy way that moms do when they're about to do something terrible, like go through their daughter's diary or their son's closet.

And she unlocks the door.

None of the house is furnished yet—all of our furniture should be arriving sometime in the next week—but the walls are freshly painted, the floors newly polished, and the kitchen recently restored. Each room is bigger than the next; Dad says there are six bedrooms, seven bathrooms, two "sitting rooms", a living room, a lounge, a laundry room, an office, a kitchen, a basement, an attic, and a movie theater. It's not much bigger than our old place, but still. And get this: there's a _barn_.

"So obviously we'll have our own rooms," Dad is telling us as we stand before the brick fireplace in the monstrous living room. "Mommy and I being in the same room, of course. But you two can pick whichever rooms you want out of the other five. We'll have to figure out what we want, exactly, to do with the leftover three, but we'll come to that after the furniture comes in." He rubs his hands together. "Any questions?"

"Yes," I chime. "Why do we have a barn?"

He laughs. "Well, my darling daughter, that's also up in the air. Mom and I were thinking of making it into some sort of studio. Since we'll have the three extra bedrooms, we were thinking you two could use one as a music room—we'll get it sound-proofed and everything." He waves a hand. "Don't worry about the barn. Now go, go! Pick your rooms. The master is the biggest—the one all the way at the end of the hall upstairs, alright? That's ours. As soon as you two are done fighting over rooms, though, head back down here and help us unload the trailer. We need to set up the blow up mattresses and stuff."

Will and I nod sharply, and then we're off. Good thing I'm faster than he is.

* * *

**Next chapter should be up tomorrow. Or tonight, even, if I update Child in Red right now. Hope you liked it! Let me know what you think so far. **


	4. Chapter 4

** Chapter Four - Kat**

_"So I cut the ties, and i jumped the tracks, never to return."_

_- The Avett Brothers_

I definitely got a bigger room than Will. Definitely. So definitely, in fact, that he doesn't even argue with me about it. My closet is half as big as my room, too, which is awesome. Of course, a big room also just means a ton of empty space, but I'm not complaining.

I'm not.

At least, not until Mom and Dad decide to put all of our instruments in the room next to mine "until we get settled" so I have to deal with Will playing his drums virtually every second for three days straight, with not even enough breaks for me to go in there and play my guitar.

I am so happy when Wednesday finally comes, and there is a knock on our door (the doorbell isn't hooked up yet) at precisely nine o'clock in the morning.

"Furniture, furniture, furniture!" Dad sings on his way past my door, banging hard. I roll off of my blow up mattress and open my door. Will's room is right across from mine; the hallway is wide at least fifteen feet, so it's less of a hallway than it is a long, endless room.

Will opens his door moments later, looking similar to how I'm sure I look; red-eyed and ruffle-haired. I wave. He blinks at me for a moment before sinking onto the hardwood floor, face first.

"I'm not going," he moans. "I hate unpacking. I hate it. I'd rather be _in school._"

"No, you wouldn't." I grin widely, even though he's not looking. "I know you're very excited about helping Dad move all the heavy furniture."

"No, I'm not."

"Will, get off the floor," Mom says, walking by on her way to the stairs, dressed in an ancient pair of overalls and a long-sleeved shirt. "Kat, get dressed. Boys, sweetie. From the moving company." She winks at me and frowns at Will over her shoulder as she runs down the stairs, barefoot.

I shake my head, looking at Will. "Boys. Ugh." I turn on my heel and jump into my room to throw on something semi-decent: leggings and a cute sweater. Will is still on the floor when I come out.

"Dad's going to kill you," I sing, making my way to the stairs, pulling my hair into a messy bun, praying internally that it can stay for the next few minutes. When I come into the living room, I see Mom and Dad carrying in one of our many couches. "Dad, go kill Will."

Dad laughs, but it's strained. His face is bright red. (Clearly psychologists weren't made for heavy lifting.) They drop it across from the fireplace. He says, loud enough for Will to hear, "It's okay, Kat. We'll just drop all his things on the side of the road for a nice homeless man. Or maybe we'll donate it."

Mom laughs. "Great idea, Harrison."

I shake my head slowly. "Awesome, Dad."

We listen as Will runs down the stairs.

"And we'll throw the drums in the car, and—" Dad stops when Will comes to stand in front of him.

"I'm here!" Will exclaims. "I'm helping, I'm helping!"

I explode into laugher. "I can't believe you fell for that!" He glares at me, in his superman pajama pants and _Star Wars _t-shirt. I don't know anyone who would be able to take him seriously, even with his six-foot height.

"I'm going to kill you," he says simply.

"I'm very scared."

And then he starts running towards me. I sprint in the opposite direction, out the front door, but he follows. We're both laughing, and Mom and Dad come out to watch us. The movers are watching, too—Mom was right, they are _boys_—and I wave as I run past. My feet are frozen from the dew-covered grass in seconds, but I don't mind. The movers laugh at us, that deep, attractive-teenage-boy laugh, as Will pounces on me and we topple over onto the edge of our lawn.

"Ow!" I exclaim. He pokes my sides, where he knows I'm ticklish, and I can't stop laughing even though his knee is crushing my thigh and his elbow is digging into my ribs. I kick him off and he lies on the grass next to me, panting.

"Oh, god," he says.

"Oh, god," I repeat. Goose flesh spreads up my arms. "I am _freezing."_ I force myself to my feet, brush grass off my leggings. "You suck," I say, leaning over to help him up.

"You, too."

Mom calls to us from the porch. "Are you two finished?" she asks.

The movers laugh. Mom winks at an especially cute one, with blonde curls and broad shoulders.

Will grabs me in a chokehold. "Just bonding with Katie," he says.

Mom raises her eyebrows. "Sure, sweetheart. Why don't you put on some shoes and start telling these nice boys where everything goes?" She turns to go inside, and then says, offhandedly, "Katie, fix your hair."

I turn bright red and try to ignore Will's outburst of laughter. "Shut up," I say to him, shoving my elbow into his gut.

"You do realize you're half my size, right?" he says, as we climb the porch steps.

I just sigh. "Small but mighty, big brother. Small but mighty."

And then I reach up to fix my hair.

Will helps to unload the moving truck, but I am deemed incapable of lifting heavy objects. So I grab a few boxes labeled with my name and lead the blond-haired boy to my room with my bed frame. Up close, I can see that he has thick, dark lashes and hazel eyes. Attractive, but not smoking hot. Cute.

"So your name's Katie?" he asks me, as we trudge up the stairs.

"Oh, no. Kat. My family calls me Katie when they're messing with me."

"I'm Caleb," he says, with a big smile.

I just shake my head. "Nice to meet you, Caleb."

"Don't I know it."

I snort. "Of course you do."

We've made it to my room, and Caleb leans to frame against the wall carefully, so as not to scratch anything. I set down the boxes, too. "Where'd you folks move from?" he asks me.

"Uh-_la_-skuh."

He grins again, either at the way I say it or just because he knows he has a nice smile. "Alaska? Really? Wow, that's cool."

I shrug, leading him back downstairs. "I guess. I mean, _Connecticut_," I say, with exaggerated excitement. "_Wow_, that's cool."

I point to a denim couch in the truck, and one of the other boys comes to help Caleb heave it out.

"Unfortunately not," Caleb says. I take two boxes of kitchen stuff and drop them on the counter on our way.

I frown. "And school?" As we walk, my hair falls out of the elastic, so I just leave it down. The curls have calmed into waves, although in the light streaming through the window it takes on an unearthly bronze glow.

Caleb shrugs, or at least tries to under the weight of the sofa. "School's fine. Not too fancy."

"Will I hate it?" I ask, honestly.

"I hope not." I'm walking backward, and I can tell from his earnest expression that he means it. "Dude," he calls to the other mover. "Pick up the pace a bit, will you?"

"Fuck off, Caleb," a bored voice comes. "Maybe if you stop flirting we can _both _pick up the pace a bit and finish our work. I have to do that stupid paper for summer reading."

Caleb raises an eyebrow at me. I'm sure I've turned beet red by this point, but he doesn't laugh at my flaming cheeks. And then he looks confused. "Wait, what paper?"

"Man, are you serious? We had to read those two books and do a compare and contrast!"

Caleb curses.

I can't help but laugh at his expression. "Can you guys just bring that up to my room? Caleb, you know where it is. I should start bringing the rest of the boxes up."

Caleb nods. "Sure thing."

I let them pass before starting back down the stairs. I almost bump into Will, who's carrying his desk up to his room. "Why do we have so much _shit_?" he grumbles, brushing past.

I laugh. "I was wondering the same thing. I'm going to grab some more of my boxes. I'll pull yours out, too."

"Thanks, Katie," he says over his shoulder.

Mom is at the base of the stairs, stacking boxes. She tells me that Dad almost electrocuted himself, but that he's fine, so don't worry. He's helping to bring in his and Mom's things. The other three boys outside are getting out Mom's massive antique dresser, while Dad watches on thoughtfully.

"I thought about being a mover once," Dad says, flicking his eyes over at me.

I snort. "And what did Grandpa think about that?"

"Not too much, actually. I let it go after a day or so." He pushes his glasses further up his nose. "How's the room coming?"

"Not sure yet," I say. "I don't know what color I want to paint the walls. Or where I want to get new sheets and pillows."

Dad waves this away. "No worries. Mom saved the old stuff for you to use in the beginning, so don't rush your . . . creative juices." He purses his lips. "Are you nervous for school?"

"Yeah, but I'm sure it'll be fine. It's not a big school."

"It's bigger than your school in Alaska," he points out.

"Every school is bigger than my school in Alaska."

Dad clicks his tongue in assent and then jumps down the stairs to grab two boxes from the stack next to the trucks. "Come on, Katie-Kat! Let's get a-move-on!" And then he laughs because apparently that's just so funny.

I roll my eyes but duck down to pick up a couple of boxes, too. One's labeled _Junk (Garage) _and the other _Dad's Junk (Office)_.

"I've got one of your boxes, Dad."

"Oh, good. Is it the junk box? For the office?" He pushes his glasses up his nose again. I nod. "Okay, just leave it by the stairs. I'll take it up after."

I roll my eyes again. "Sure, Dad."

* * *

**Fluff, fluff, fluff. Next chapter up soon.**


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